


Distant Shores and Voices: Marginalia

by theherocomplex



Series: Distant Shores and Voices [14]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5573170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex/pseuds/theherocomplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles and ficlets from the Distant Shores and Voices 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In response to prideling's Tumblr prompt from the kiss meme: 17. Shy kiss
> 
> I feel like every FenHawke shipper writes their own version of this scene and who am I to resist? :D 

 

Anders blocks the door to Hawke’s room, arms folded, eyes narrowed, and Fenris quashes the urge to run the mage through – with his blade or his own hand, it doesn’t matter. 

“I won’t waste too many words,” says Anders, lifting his chin. “But –” 

“Leave it,” Fenris says, quietly. The last thing he wants now is to listen to more of Anders’ complaining – _you hurt Hawke, you don’t deserve Hawke, I would been done so much better, if she had chosen me._

Anders is not _wrong_ , exactly. Fenris hurt Hawke, he does not deserve Hawke, yes – but the truth is a much keener blade than Anders could ever understand. There are two lives in Fenris’ head, and he must untangle them before he can begin anew. Before he can bring himself to Hawke once more, and say _I am ready, if you will have me._ Some healing must be done alone. 

Tonight, though – tonight, he cares only that Hawke nearly died, and Anders is between them. 

Anders makes an angry-cat face, and shakes his head. “I’m speaking as her healer, Fenris,” he says. “Not as her friend. You may see her –” 

“You could not stop me,” Fenris interrupts, unable to help himself. 

Anders sighs before he goes on. “You may see her, but don’t touch her. I’ve healed what I can, sewn up what I couldn’t, but she’s – well, you’ll see. The Arishok tore her apart.” The unspoken message lies heavy under Anders’ words: _the Arishok tore her apart, and you couldn’t save her. I can. So what does that make you, Fenris?_

Fenris does not know. But he is here, and he smells Hawke in the air, mixed with a sickroom scent of lyrium and honey. He swallows and holds Anders’ gaze, unblinking. 

“She’s awake,” says Anders. “If you can, try to get her to suck on some ice. I don’t want her drinking anything yet, but the ice will help. And remember – _no touching._ ” He holds the cup of ice out to Fenris, then steps aside, finally, and holds the door open as Fenris walks through. 

Fenris notices that Anders does not close the door – but he does not care. In the dim sunset light, he sees Hawke on her back, her head turned away, her hair covering her face. 

He tries to say her name, and fails. But he makes some small noise, and she turns her head. 

“Who…?” she slurs. “Ave– Fenris?” 

The honest surprise in her voice cracks Fenris straight through. Did she think he would not come? Did she think he had not spent the last five hours pacing her halls, waiting for Anders to open the door? 

Did she – but then, he is to blame for her surprise. They have barely talked in six months, beyond the necessary. And while Fenris knows she still trusts him, still cares for him – Hawke could not hide her feelings for all the gold in the world – she has left him to rebuild himself in private. 

“I…” he says, then hesitates, remembering the ice in his hand as his fingers grow numb. “I brought you ice.” He lifts the cup, and Hawke smiles wanly. 

“You’ll spoil me,” she whispers. “Give it here, then.” She lifts her hand to take the cup, but a flash of pain cuts across her face and she lets her hand fall to the bed, groaning quietly. “Or not,” she says. “Silly me, forgetting I was in ribbons a few hours ago.” 

Fenris laughs, more for Hawke’s sake than for any real humor. “Allow me,” he says, sitting in the chair by her bed. The ice has begun to melt, and nearly slides through his fingers before he can bring it to her lips. 

Hawke takes the sliver of ice carefully, no part of her touching any of him, but Fenris feels her fever-warmth on his fingers. They have not been this close in too long, in so long – but he cannot, he cannot. Not now, when she is half-dreamy, eyes hazy and full of pain. 

So he feeds her ice until the cup is empty, and she closes her eyes with a sigh. 

“Fenris,” she murmurs, her voice as gentle as the fading sunlight. “I’m sorry.” 

Before he can ask what for, her mouth twists. 

“I miss you,” she says. “Oh, Maker, I miss you.” Her eyes open, sharp as ever, and her mouth twists once more in a sad, hard smile. “I wouldn’t be saying this if Anders hadn’t dosed me with some truly magnificent herbs. But I do.” She sighs again, this breath wavering, and her eyes dulling. “I think I’ll sleep now. Thank you. For you. For –” 

Almost shyly, Fenris bends, and touches his mouth to Hawke’s. “I miss you, Hawke,” he says. “I cannot promise –” 

He kisses her again, so unlike their first heated, thoughtless kisses, to feel her inhale against his mouth. It would be so easy to stay, to let this be where they begin again – but Hawke pulls away.

“Don’t,” she says, her voice cracking. “Don’t, or I’ll cry, and Anders will never forgive you. Just – just go, Fenris. I –” She shudders, breathing hard, and winces. “Oh, Fenris,” she says, and turns her face to the pillow. 

Fenris hesitates, hovering over her bed as slow tears leak from under her lids, but then Anders’ hand falls on his shoulder, and the healer gently draws him from the room. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon on Tumblr asked for _Jellyfish - A thousand little stings, for Rhyssa Hawke/Fenris._
> 
> (this went…somewhere unexpected, but I hope the anon liked it!)
> 
> This takes place early in Act Two. 

****Anders finishes his mug of ale at the exact moment Varric’s story hits its peak –

“…and I shit you not, that’s when she stuffed her entire hand down his –”

– which means he won’t be getting up from the table to fetch a fresh one any time soon. He settles back in his chair with a sigh, already feeling the faint tipsiness he’d managed to achieve evaporate, and hopes Edwina will have a sudden burst of compassion, and bring him one unasked.

_Not a chance,_ he thinks to himself, as Varric stands up to demonstrate and their table breaks out into laughter. _Only Hawke gets that kind of treatment. And since she isn’t here…_

No chance of drinking on Hawke’s coattails then, either. Anders shoves his mug away and resolutely tries to ignore the whisper of disapproval that floats through his head. Justice doesn’t disapprove of Hawke, but it does disapprove of nights spent in the Hanged Man.

_Well,_ Anders tells Justice, knowing full well he’s simply thinking to himself, _it’s warm here, and I have to eat sometime. If you won’t let me get drunk, at least let me get dinner and a few laughs._

The disapproval fades, but doesn’t disappear. It’s as good as he’ll get, so Anders relaxes, and starts trying to catch Nella’s eye as Varric finishes with a flourish.

“And  _that_ , my friends, is how Hawke ended up with three templars’ sets of underwear.” 

With a player’s perfect timing, Hawke drops into the seat at Anders’ side, shoving an armful of mugs onto the table with a clatter. “There,” she says, beaming around the laughing table. “No one’s going thirsty tonight!”

The cheers drown out all conversation, but Anders leans in and whispers, as close to her ear as he dares, “Is it true? Three pairs?”

“Three pairs of what?” Hawke replies, blinking wide, guileless eyes at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Anders. Drink your ale.” 

This is how she’s escaped the templars for so long, Anders decides, as Hawke turns her head to talk to Isabela. She bats her eyelashes, pretends not to know what they’re talking about, and then changes the subject before any of them realize a mage has danced right out of their grasp. It doesn’t hurt that she’s lovely, the loveliest woman Anders has seen in years – but it _does_ hurt that she never notices anyone looking at her but that damn elf.

At least that damn elf isn’t here tonight. Anders will drink to that.

And perhaps, if he can finish this mug fast enough, he can get ahead of his doubts and his good sense and even Justice, and finally tell Hawke just how lovely he finds her.

It’s not love. It never will be. But Anders wants something that is _his_ , not shared with Justice, even if Hawke will only give him a night. She is the only one who listened, the only one who helped, and maybe Anders can forget the buzzing and nattering in the back of his head if she says yes, if she helps him one more time. Maybe he can forget to be angry, for a little while.

Hawke smells like honey, and her skin will feel like cream. Anders is sure of it. And he’ll feel her mana surge under her skin, bright and innocent and free, and he would kill all the templars in Kirkwall to make sure she stays that way.

Just one – just one night. One hour. It could be love, for that long.

“Oh!” says Hawke, dropping her mug to the table and beaming at the door. “Fenris! You came!” 

“I did,” says the elf, pushing back the hood of his cloak and giving Hawke a rare sliver of a smile. Anders chances a look at Hawke, ready to cringe inwardly as she blushes and fumbles over her words – but he finds her smiling, uncaring for who sees her, completely oblivious to the way Aveline’s eyebrow quirks and how Isabela rolls her eyes. 

Anders could have loved Hawke, if she had let him. An hour, a night, but no longer than that. There is so much left to do, and he can’t trade his best ally and his only true friend for something like love. 

But – 

Hawke could be so much more than this, a lucky refugee turned wealthy daughter of Kirkwall. She holds fire and wind in her hands, winter obeys her and the ground shouts her name when she calls – she could be a symbol and a general, leading her fellow mages to their freedom. 

How can she be content to live this life, with only her money and her charm keeping her free? And how can she love Fenris, who sneers and rages at magic every chance he gets? 

_How?_

It burns, as fiercely as a wasp’s sting, to see how Hawke _loves_  Fenris, and _has_ loved Fenris, and _will_ love Fenris, long after Anders has finished his bloody work and walked out of her life.

_She’s just as damned as I am,_ Anders thinks, as Hawke and Fenris watch each other, a world unto themselves, complete.

It stings, and it has stung, and it will sting – but not for long. There is always work to do, always another battle to fight, and the time for either is growing short. 

He stands up, and tosses a few coins to the table. “For my share,” he says, when Hawke finally notices him again. 

She sees something in his face, enough to chase away the last of her smile for Fenris, and leave her eyes warm with sympathy. With pity. _Pity._

Anders’ stomach twists. Damn her, for always understanding too much. 

“Anders, don’t go –” says Hawke, reaching out for his arm. 

He pulls away, filling his lungs with one last warm breath, and heads for the door, trying not to feel Justice exulting in his head. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [continuousspectrum](http://continuousspectrum.tumblr.com) asked for Narwhal - Keep coming back to the same place, for Fenris/Hawke.

 

The world likes to think of Hawke as a blazing pyre, or a beacon shining from a lighthouse over a stormy sea. They whisper about her over their ale, they read Varric’s books, they may even have sold her a jar of honey once in Kirkwall’s markets, and they think they know her. 

They do not. They cannot. This is what Fenris thinks as he climbs the icy steps to Starkhaven’s Chantry, his hood pulled low to hide his face. No one with any sense is out this late, not with the winter wind howling through the streets, choking the city with snow. But this is when Hawke visited the Chantry – late at night, when only the truly penitent or the eternally lost would brave the journey – and she could be assured of silence as she made her devotions. 

_“Which one are you?” he asked her, a lifetime ago. “Truly penitent, or eternally lost?”_

_She considered, frowning and tapping her chin with a finger. “I’m not sure,” she said, with one of the fragile half-smiles he treasured more than water. “Perhaps I’ll find out, someday. Till then, it’s safer to pray for help with both.”_

Fenris knows. The Fade lies between them now, and while he walks streets grown so familiar he could travel them blindfolded, Hawke wanders, no longer singing. 

Or so he believes. He does not truly know. 

The door handles are slick from the freezing rain, but the doors open easily enough, and a breath of warm air, heavy with smoke and fragrant ashes, draws Fenris inside. 

No one else has come to pray in this quiet hour. A sister nods to him as she relights candles, but she slips up a dark set of stairs before Fenris has done more than push back his hood. Andraste’s statue towers over him, lit by rings of candles, her face obscured by rising clouds of incense. All her acolytes have gone to their beds, and the city around him sleeps. 

He is alone, the Chantry so quiet he can hear water dripping from his cloak. He does not pray. If Andraste or the Maker have turned their eyes to him, they know better than to interrupt. They know he is not here for them. 

“Hawke,” Fenris says, as he always does, and as always, his throat closes and he can say no more. 

Few knew of her quiet, solitary devotions while she lived; even fewer know of them now. Fenris never asked to accompany her, and she never thanked him for that, but what need did they have of talking? She understood him, and he her – for a time, at least. 

It was longer than most of the world had. And now, he has come to this, listening for her voice in an empty Chantry, hoping she will answer when he calls. Kirkwall’s would have been better, but there is no Chantry in Kirkwall now, and this will have to do. 

Why does he think that this dark and breathless chamber will hold any more of Hawke than Sundermount, or Lothering, or what remains of Kirkwall? He has been to all these places, and heard nothing, seen nothing, _felt_ nothing – but he still comes here, when he cannot sleep and the sea cries out upon the rocks. 

_Why?_

Because, Fenris thinks, watching the candles gutter in a draft, it is the last place he has left to look.  

He closes his eyes. The rain has stopped, and the streets will be thick with ice when he makes his way back to Sebastian’s keep. 

But not yet. 

There are so many kinds of devotions. He does not bend his knee, he does not sing the Chant, but he waits, as he has, as he will, in case Hawke can hear him.

One more time. 

He whispers Hawke’s name, thinks of her dropping coins into the offering box, tilting her head up to meet Andraste’s gaze, clasping her hands – so much the world did not know, so much it will never know, and he carries it all in his heart, her hands and laughter, her head on his pillow – and opens his eyes to nothing but the flickering candles and the empty, uncaring face above him. 


End file.
